


The Weight of Invincibility

by dreyrugr



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Adoption, Arc Reactor, Fluff, Gen, Generally MCU Compliant, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra (Marvel), Kid Peter Parker, M/M, Multi, Overprotective Peter Parker, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Avengers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective James "Rhodey" Rhodes, Protective Steve Rogers, Protective Tony Stark, Sick Tony Stark, Sort Of, Spider-Man: Homecoming Compliant, Superfamily (Marvel), Team as Family, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark-centric, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, dad tony, son peter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-06-05 03:33:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15161660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreyrugr/pseuds/dreyrugr
Summary: There’s a kid on his doorstep.There's a kid. On his doorstep.Or,Somehow, Peter manages to stumble into Tony's life. Nothing is  as simple as it seems, especially when Hydra comes knocking on their door.





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> In this 'verse, something goes horribly wrong during that surgery in a cave. It leaves Tony barely functioning for the rest of his three-month soirée, much to the annoyance of the Ten Rings. Thankfully, Rhodey manages to storm the cave before anyone could decide to simply kill Tony off. Thus, Iron Man remains but a distant idea, while Yinsen becomes Tony's ultimate inspiration as the man dies in the middle of the raid.
> 
> Enter Peter Parker, a five-year-old kid that stumbles onto Tony's doorstep post-Obadiah. He manages to steal Tony's heart in ten seconds flat.
> 
> This story will continue on throughout MCU with some canon divergences here and there that I hope will make for an interesting read as Tony and Peter's relationship develops throughout the years with the addition of Steve and Bucky, the rest of the Avengers, and, of course, Spider-Man's homecoming.

There’s a kid on his doorstep.

There’s a kid. On his doorstep.

“J, why is there a kid on our doorstep?”

“I am uncertain, Sir; though, I imagine you should allow the child in before the storms begin.”

Tony is too sleep-deprived to deal with this shit. He wisely keeps his comment to himself. “Right. Letting the child in. If he’s somehow here to kill me, after Obie― _Stane_ , whatever―spectacularly failed, I’m blaming it on you.”

“I’m sure even _you_ will be able to overpower what appears to be a five-year-old child, Sir.”

Tony merely rolls his eyes into the space before him―he’s sure J.A.R.V.I.S. will catch the gesture through one of the cameras, anyway.

Slowly, laboriously, he levers himself up from his position on the couch. The room does a slow swirl-around, the edges of the world graying, but it does nothing to impede his progress. He knows when he’s going to pass out, and he knows how to lower himself to the floor before it happens. It won’t happen now; he’s practically an expert by now on when the line of might-collapse crosses into the hellish territory of ‘fainting like classic damsel in distress.’

At least, he hopes he isn’t dredging through ‘fainting like classic damsel in distress’ territory again. Rhodey, after the last two times, will never let him live it down again.

He can clearly see the kid through the glass doors. There are dried tear tracks on the kid’s pudgy, toddler cheeks and what looks like a small gash that has already coagulated on the side of his forehead, close to the temple. Other than that, aside from the way the kid is rolling up his hands in the cloth of the bottom of his shirt, over and over in what is obviously a self-soothing way―hey, even he knows that much about children―the kid looks fine, physically.

The door, at J.A.R.V.I.S.’ purview, swings open as Tony approaches, and the kid immediately startles back. Gently, spreading his hands before himself, Tony lowers himself to the kid’s level. “Hey,” he soothes, “hey, it’s okay. My name’s Tony.”

“P-Peter,” the kid manages, and Tony tries not to die of Cuteness Overload. Totally not what the situation calls for right now. “Peter Pa’ker.”

Tony reaches a hand out, palm up. “Okay, Peter―can I call you Peter? Okay, good, thanks; that’s great―do you think you can tell me how you got hurt?”

Peter’s eyes, all doe- and big-eyed and chocolatey-brown and adorable, go wide. “Yeth!” he lisps, taking Tony’s proffered hand shyly. “Lady Agen’ was takin’ me to―to the new family, the family I’m supposed to go to?”

Tony thinks that that’s probably one of those ‘All Adults know this’ thing, so he nods like he totally knows exactly what Peter is talking about. “And then what happened?”

Peter shakes his head, and this new bit seems to distress him because his cheeks go all rosy with gathering tears. “Don’ know. I was―I was sleeping, I think, and then―and then ev’thing was jerkin’ ev’where, and then I woke up, and Lady Agen’ wasn’ wakin’ up. And then―and I know Dad said no’ get out of car, for anything, but I hadda ‘cause Lady Agen’ wasn’ wakin’ up, and I didn’ know what to do, but I saw this house from where I was, so I came here ‘cause Adults live in houses, and they have phones, and they can call ‘mergence-y.” Peter stares up at Tony for a beat, gathering the breath he had lost in his rapid spiel. “Can I bo’ow your phone, Mistah Tony? Pwease?”

Quietly, he hears J.A.R.V.I.S. say, “Sir, I have already taken the liberty of calling first responders to the scene. They will be here shortly.”

“Okay,” he says, to both Peter and the A.I. He tugs gently on the hand Peter is holding. “Wanna come inside for a bit? I can call for the emergency people inside while we get you something to eat. How ‘bout it?”

Peter twists his free hand into the fringes of his shirt nervously. Tony waits out the kid’s indecisiveness, trying not to gush―yet again―at how adorable the kid is. “‘Kay,” he eventually agrees, almost reluctantly, all very classic stranger-danger-y.

Slowly, knowing it would very much not do anyone any good, especially the kid, if he passes out right now from standing up too fast, Tony gets up and then begins leading Peter into the house. “Come on, then. I’ll show you where I keep all of the goodies, and we won’t tell Lady Agent about any of it, all right? It’ll be our little secret.”

Predictably, Peter’s eyes go wide with delighted surprise. “Really?! That’d be real nice, Mistah Tony!”

Tony smiles gently at the kid, pleased that he’s able to do this much, at least. “Really, really.”

They head into the kitchen, Peter’s head swiveling everywhere with intense curiosity. Tony slides back one of the stools at the kitchen island and, with no small effort that leaves him embarrassingly breathless for a second too long, helps lever the kid up onto it.

Peter’s itty-bitty hands spread over the quartz counter, stars in his eyes. “You have a real nice house, Mistah Tony.”

Tony supposes he does. He’s always loved the view of his Malibu beach home, but he doesn't think that's what Peter is referring to. “And I think you're the nicest thing in it,” he replies in kind and believes it wholeheartedly.

Peter ducks his head with a giggle. And, god, Tony didn't think the kid could get much more adorable.

Tony goes to the fridge and starts rummaging through it for a bottle of water. He finds and sets it before the kid. Then, after a moment’s thought, he takes the water bottle back again, cracks it open, and pours half of it into a glass.

The glass clinks softly against the counter as he sets it down. “Here you go, kid. Drink some of that while I find us something sweet to eat.”

Peter wraps both of his itty-bitty hands around the circumference of the fogging glass. “Than’ you, Mistah Tony,” he says with carefully worded politeness.

God, what the hell did he do to deserve to be in the presence of the most well-behaved whatever-year-old. Speaking of― “Mind if I ask you a question, Peter?”

Sipping his water with both hands, Peter shakes his head.

“Okay, thank you,” he says because he’s _trying._ “How old are you?”

Still taking careful sips of his water, Peter holds up two and three fingers from each hand without unsticking his palms.

“Five, wow. All grown up, huh?”

Peter nods eagerly as he sets down his now empty glass. “Aunt May said I'm gonna ge’ bigger.”

Tony finds a packet of Hershey’s and marshmallows and sets those down on the counter in front of Peter. He feigns surprise as he straddles a stool across from the kid, hooking his feet around the bottom wrung. “Even bigger! Gosh, you'll be taller than a skyscraper soon enough.”

Peter giggles, hunching into his shoulder to hide his adorable smile. “Nooo.”

Tony smiles again, helpless against the cuteness presented before him. “Nope, you can’t convince me otherwise. Peter Parker is going to grow as big as a skyscraper and terrorize everyone with his Godzilla powers.”

Peter snickers. “Wha’s a Godzilla?”

Tony gasps, mock-offended. “You don't know what Godzilla is?”

Peter shakes his head wildly, staring at Tony with delighted eyes.

Tony rips into the packet of Hershey’s and presents a bar of chocolate in the air. “Well, for one, a Godzilla―what’s your favourite animal?”

“Spidahs!”

Weïrd choice, but, okay. “Well, for one, Godzilla is a giant spider that will stop at nothing to eat these,” he says, wiggling the bar of chocolate between thumb and finger.

“Wow,” Peter says, all breathy and cute, “really?”

“For realsies―don’t tell anyone I said that word; that’s just embarrassing.” He digs into the bag of square marshmallows and then opens the bar of chocolate in his other hand. Avidly, Peter watches as he breaks off a block of chocolate and squeezes it into the center of the ‘mallow.

He pinches the finished product between his fingers and presents it to his audience. “So, if you wanna eat some Hershey’s before Godzilla gets to it and eats it all, you gotta hide it in a marshmallow like this.” He holds it out and waits for Peter to take it.

Peter squeezes the marshmallow experimentally, bouncing his fingers along the gooey softness. And then he bites, pushing half of it into his mouth.

Tony waits for it.

Peter chews.

His eyes go wide.

Tony grins. “Like it?”

Instead of answering, Peter shoves the other half into his mouth and starts munching on the goodness with all his worth. He sticks his fingers in his mouth―Tony carefully doesn’t consider where those hands have been―and licks off the last of it. Peter hums happily, his body jerking in that tell-tale sign that tells Tony his feet are swinging in the space under his stool.

“Tha’ was yummy!” Peter exclaims, displaying his sticky fingers. “Than’  you, Mistah Tony.”

“My pleasure entirely, Mister Peter.” He proffers another marshmallow. “Want another one?”

Tony didn’t think it was possible, but Peter’s eyes go even rounder. “Yeth, pwease!”

Tony makes two more marshmallow-chocolate thingamajigs that Peter devours with gusto before the doorbell rings.

“Sir, law enforcement is here. Shall I let them through?”

Peter’s eyes start wildly scanning the room. “Who’s that?”

So much for not scaring the kid. “He’s a robot of sorts that I made; he’s in the house. Don't worry about him, okay? He’s really nice.”

Hesitantly, Peter nods his head. “‘Kay.”

“Sir?” J.A.R.V.I.S., the impatient A.I. that he is, prods.

Tony flaps a hand. “Yeah, yeah, let them through. I’ll get them at the door.” He moves off his stool, glad that for once the world doesn’t immediately start going gray. “Stay here for a second while I go talk to the nice emergency people, okay, kid?” he tells Peter.

Peter nods his understanding, and Tony pours him the last of the water into the empty glass for good measure.

“Okay, good, thank you. Drink some more water in the meantime, all right?”

“‘Kay, Mistah Tony.”

There’s only one officer when he goes to greet the door. He’s on the short side, blond with a receding hairline, and sporting a tan like everyone else in these parts of the country seems to be.

“Mister Stark?” the officer says. “Officer Williams with Malibu P.D. We received a call from your residence from an incident that occurred just down the road from here?”

“Uh, yeah.” He points to the ceiling. “Well, my A.I. was the one who called, but that’s beside the point.” He leads the man inside, towards the kitchen, where he sees Peter still sitting diligently at the kitchen island with the rest of the Hershey’s bar beginning to melt all over his sticky fingers. “Kid showed up at my doorstep, saying he was with whom I assume was his caseworker―coffee?”

“Please,” Williams says, inviting himself to the stool next to Peter. “You must be Peter,” he asks the kid with the ‘talking to child’ tone most people get, to which Peter nods hesitantly. “I'm Officer Williams, but you can call me Danny.” He eyes Tony from the corner of his eye as the latter sets about working the only appliance he knows how to properly use in the kitchen, aside from the microwave and toaster.

“Nice to meet you, Mistah Danny,” Peter returns, though he doesn’t lose the nervousness.

Sensing that’s as far he’s going to get with Peter, Williams turns to Tony.

He picks up right off. “He said he was sleeping when the crash occurred. He tried to wake up the Lady Agent―um, caseworker, whatever―but couldn’t. He came here, which he could see from the road. Figured he’d get an adult to call someone.”

Williams is a little rough around the edges, Tony can tell, but he makes the effort to compliment Peter’s thinking. “That’s good that you did that, Peter. It was very brave of you.”

Peter ducks his head, his pudgy cheeks colouring pink. “I didn’ do nothin’ special.”

Yeah, that won't fly. “‘Course, you did. ‘Sides, you’re really helping me save my chocolate from being devoured by Godzilla. It'd say that's more than Captain America would do, don't you think?”

Williams eyes him like he just sprouted a third head, but it’s Peter’s reaction that matters anyway, so Tony doesn’t give a shit.

Like he hoped, Peter giggles, doing that adorable, squirmy thing where he tries to hide into his own body.

Tony smiles at the sight, yet again helpless at the cuteness. He doesn’t know how Williams isn’t melting into a puddle of goo yet from sheer proximity alone. “See, even Mister Danny here agrees with me, doesn’t he?”

If Williams objects to the nickname, he doesn’t show it. “It was very brave,” he repeats himself, but Peter doesn’t seem to notice.

McSteamy―the coffee maker―beeps at him. Tony fetches the done coffee and presents it to his new guest. “Sugar? Creamer?”

Williams waves a hand. “Black is fine, thanks.”

“A man after my own heart,” he says, flirting unconsciously, but Williams looks more engrossed in his cup of joe. “How’s Lady Agent?”

Williams eyes Peter for a moment, who has been currently entertained with stuffing blocks of chocolate into marshmallow squares. “K.I.A.,” he replies, going for subtle in the light that shit like this shouldn’t be openly discussed in front of a five-year-old kid.

“Oh,” Tony manages and painfully feels his heart lurch.

He must look as bad as he feels, since suddenly Williams is at his side, helping him lower unto the stool. “Woah, hey, easy breaths,” Williams frets.

Peter takes that unfortunate moment to perk up. “Mistah Tony?”

Tony waves a hand, the other holding against the reactor embedded in his chest. “M’fine, just too much excitement there.”

Williams reluctantly lets him go. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Tony says, finally feeling his heart settle, “yeah, I'm good.”

Williams doesn’t return to his seat, hovering just a few feet away.

Great, Tony doesn’t say. Another mother-hen. “What happened?”

Williams eyes him again, this time with reluctance, but Tony glares, and the man relents. “It looks like a hit-and-run. There aren’t any CCTV around these stretches of road, but even that much is clear. Driver’s side is dented in, drove the car right into the side of the mountain.” He looks at Peter then, who stares unblinkingly back. “It’s a miracle he made it out just fine, from the looks of it. There was a fuel leakage. Car caught on fire.”

Tony has to tell himself repeatedly there was nothing he could have done. He fails to believe his own lie. “I can keep Peter here for a while, if he doesn’t mind,” he offers tentatively, waiting for the disappointment to hit. He really likes Peter, for all that he has known the kid for less than an hour. “He said something about going to a foster family. Any surviving documents?”

“No,” Williams says, “not that we saw.” He looks to Peter again, judging just how comfortable the kid is. “I'd have to make some calls, but Peter can stay here until we find out who his fosters are. Hey, Peter, how would you like to stay with Mister Tony here for a while until we find out where you are supposed to go, huh?”

Peter delights in that, sitting up straight in his seat with hope warring in his young, pudgy face. “Can I?” he asks, like he’s being offered the best ice cream in the world.

“Yeah, kiddo,” Tony answers, “you sure can.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins!
> 
> Also, disclaimer: I'm taking some creative license with the adoption and foster care thingamajig.
> 
> Danny Williams was not originally in the fic. He just sort of, kind of...wrote himself in? Oops?


	2. The Adoption

 

They don't find any documents, online or anywhere.

In fact, they don't find anything at all, not even so much as a peep about this so-called foster family Lady Agent had been taking Peter to.

“Nothing?”

_ “No,” _ Williams confirms,  _ “there’s really nothing. At this point, we can only assume Belova had kidnapped Peter under false pretenses.” _

“Fuck,” Tony breathes, suddenly intensely glad Peter had somehow wandered into his life. “He mentioned a dad―Peter, I mean―and an Aunt Maya or May or whatever; I'm not that good with names. What about them? Has anyone filed a missing person’s report?”

_ “We looked into it,” _ Williams says.  _ “Peter really is an orphan, no known relatives that are currently alive. He’s been in the system for a little under two years now. It’s probably why he didn’t think anything was strange when Belova approached him.” _

The stress has his heart thundering in his chest. The world is starting to sway in his vision. “Jesus fuck,” he curses, both at his idiot body and at life currently at hand.

_ “Stark?” _ Williams asks, obviously catching the new hitch in his breath.  _ “You all right?” _

He forces himself to breathe, digging the heel of a palm against the migraine looming at his temples. “M’fine,” he gasps; “I'm fine, for fuck’s sake.”

He can practically hear the judgement through the phone.  _ “Okay, but I'm not there to catch you if you faint again.” _

God, what the hell was with him attracting all of the overbearing, mother-hen types? “I don't  _ faint. _ And it was one damn time.”

_ “Is that what you always say?” _ Williams snarks, the little shit.

“It's a minor heart condition, all right?” he lies. “I won't keel over any time soon.”

_ “Okay, first off, I'm a cop; I can tell when you're lying, even over the phone. Second off, in what world is any heart condition considered ‘minor?’” _

“Whatever,” Tony mutters into the phone. He’s only known Williams for a half a year, and already Tony is tired of the guy.

Williams doesn’t deign that with a response, the smug bastard.  _ “I talked with some of my contacts,” _ he says instead.  _ “Officially, no one can take Peter away. Unofficially, I know some guys who can help you with the whole adoption process, if you're still going for it.” _

Tony doesn’t know how Williams could possibly know he has every intention of keeping Peter for the rest of his life.

_ “I’ve got a daughter,” _ Williams knowingly assumes of the silence.  _ “I know what that face you make at Peter means.” _

Tony snorts. “Officer Gruff has a daughter? I find that hard to believe.”

_ “That’s Detective Gruff to you, Stark.” _

“Wait, seriously? Since when?”

_ “If I accept the offer, since today.” _

Tony hums thoughtfully. “You relocating, then?”

_ “My ex-wife is leaving to Hawai’i. Where she goes, my daughter goes.” _ Williams tells.  _ “So, that’s where I'll go.” _

Tony hums again, squinting at the ceiling of his living room. “I don't see it. Jersey city boy living it up in a tropical island? You'll get eaten up by the locals.”

_ “I'll make do,” _ Williams disagrees.  _ “I'll send the paperwork over.” _

Tony doesn’t bother arguing. “Thank you,” he says instead. “I know that kind of shit couldn't have been easy to come by.”

_ “Listen,”  _ Williams says,  _ “I think you're good for the kid. And, as much as you hate to admit it, you need someone like him in your life.”  _ He pauses.  _ “Don't prove me wrong, Tony.” _

Tony bites into the flesh of his cheek. “I know how I am, so I can't promise anything definite, but I can sure as hell promise to be the best damn thing in that kid’s life, even if it kills me.”

_ “Good enough for me.” _ Williams’ breath raises static over the line.  _ “You take care of yourself, Tony, you hear?” _

“Always,” he promises. “And, hey, you ever run into a guy called Steve McGarrett, you punch him in the face for me and tell him that’s for dumping me back in ‘05, got it?”

_ “I'll do you one better: I'll shoot him in the foot; how ‘bout it?” _

Tony grins. “You always know how to treat a girl right, Mister Danny. Now go be the next Sherlock Holmes.”

_ “I'll see you around, Tony.” _

The call disconnects.

Tony dumps his phone across the couch. It lands with a thump between two cushions, leaning on a point precariously before it topples over in the next moment, face-down.

He stares at blank ceilings, trying with everything that he can to ignore the image at the back of his mind of a looming Obadiah Stane towering over his paralyzed body with his heart in his hands.

“Sir?”

Tony blinks, and the memory dissipates like dust. “Yes, J.A.R.V.I.S.?”

“I have received the documents from Sergeant Williams. Shall I process them through?”

Tony bites his lip, suddenly indecisive. This seems like something he should tell Peter, right? After all, for all intents and purposes, Tony is trying to become Peter’s dad―or something close to it, at least. He figures Peter should have a say in all of this, at the very least, even if the kid is over a decade from being able to make those sorts of life-changing decisions for himself.

“ Wait off on it for a sec. I gotta talk to Peter first.”

“The Young Master is still taking his nap,” J.A.R.V.I.S. helpfully informs.

Tony flaps a hand at the air and uses the other to dig into the side of his head. Definitely a migraine now. “I know. Just―wake me up when he does?”

“Of course, Sir. Sleep well.”

Tony flops to the side in a barely controlled fall and burrows his face under the closest cushion. “Th’nks, J.”

 

* * *

Something pokes him in the side. “Tony?”

Tony grumbles, digging his face further into the pillow under his face.

Another poke, this time on the shoulder. “Tony?”

Tony groans, fighting off wakefulness with the last of his resolve. “Nnng,” he manages.

“Tony?” A third poke lands on his arm. “Tony? Could you make me food, pwease? M’hungry.”

Tony cracks an eye open to see Peter standing next to the couch where he had fallen asleep in hopes of denying the existence of his migraine into nothingness. Not that it did much, so far. “Y’really?” he mumbles, allowing his eyelid to droop back down. 

He hears the rustle of Peter’s nod. “Yeth, pwease.”

Tony smiles despite himself. The kid really is the most well-behaved in the damn world―he’s only had to deal with two tantrums over the last several months, and Tony can reasonably say he had those coming a mile away. It’s comfortable, living with Peter, and Pepper has even gone so far as to say that Tony’s Episodes have gone down in number all due to the kid’s presence.

Apparently, domesticity is a good look on Tony Stark. Who knew?

He manages enough energy to squint up at Peter. “Wh’day is it?” Time has slipped too far from his fingers; all he can manage to discern is that it has been a few hours, at the very least, given it was sunset-red-violet before he clunked out and now it's darker than the blackest cup of coffee.

“Tuesday, Sir,” the A.I. replies. “I've ordered the usual. It will be arriving within half an hour.”

Yay for A.I.s, Tony not so sarcastically thinks to himself. “Thanks, J.” He thumps a heavy hand against the empty space unoccupied by his body on the couch. “Lay down with me, Pete?”

Peter does, twisting his little body like an aspiring gymnast to reach the top. He settles himself against the line of Tony’s body, cuddling in, and Tony wraps an arm over him and pulls him even closer.

He nudges his cold nose at Peter’s neck, causing a giggle to burst forth. He has yet to find the energy to open his eyes. “Hmn,” he hums mock-thoughtfully, “is this my pillow? It smells like a Peter.”

“M’not a  _ pillow,” _ Peter says indignantly.

Tony laughs. “Coulda fooled me.” He raises a hand to pet at Peter’s hair, weaving his fingers through brown, unruly waves. Peter moves into the gesture like a cat eager for affection. “Hey, remember how Mister Danny said you could stay with me for a little while?”

“Yeah,” Peter dutifully says, “Mistah Danny said they were looking for someone to take care o’me. He said you'd take care o’me till then.”

Tony presses a kiss against the back of Peter’s head. “That's exactly what he said,” he compliments; “it’s good of you that you remembered that.” He pauses, takes a moment of fortitude. “Well, I was just talking to Mister Danny while you were taking your nap, and he said they couldn't find anyone. Hey, Peter?” He nudges at the kid to turn over, and somehow is able to burst forth enough energy to crack his eyes open for the foreseeable future.

Those big, hazel eyes are staring up at him now. God, Peter's really the cutest thing in the world.

“Do you think you'd like to stay here? For, like, forever and ever?” he rushes out. He's totally messing this whole thing up, isn't he? Ah, fuck. “I'd like to be your family, if you'd like that.”

Horrifyingly, Peter’s eyes start to well up.

“Oh, hey, Jesus, no, don't cry, okay?” Tony panics. “Or, god, fuck, keep crying if that's what you wanna do; just let it all out, and we can figure this out nice and―”

“You won' leave?” Peter's on the verge on sobbing, his bottom lip trembling as the first tear begins its track down a pudgy cheek. “You can't leave me, Tony. I don’ want you to  _ leave _ .”

Tony wipes the tear away, cupping his hand over Peter’s cheek. “ _ Never, _ ” he swears. “I'd  _ never _ leave you, Peter. Not ever, you hear?”

Peter nods haltingly. “So, I can stay with you?”

Tony smiles, something giddy bubbling in his chest. He presses his forehead to Peter and cuddles the kid closer to his body. “For as long as you want to, Petey-pie, and no one will ever,  _ ever _ take you away. Got it?”

Peter nods eagerly, the skin of their foreheads sparking friction and making their twined hairs stick up with static. “I don’ ever wanna leave you, Tony.” Then, with the brightest grin, he declares in the way only a six-year-old can, “I ‘member Un’le Ben said that, when you mar’y someone, i’means you  _ hafta _ stay together  _ forevah! _ I'm gonna mar’y you one day, Tony, and I'll nevah,  _ evah _ le’you go.”

Oh, Jesus, what the hell kind of logic― “You sure you wanna marry little, old me, Peter?” He swears he’s not going to laugh; he swears  _ he will not laugh, oh, god. _

Peter sits up in his enthusiasm, bouncing on his folded legs on the couch. Tony barely moves; the kid barely has enough mass to move a kitchen stool. “Yeah!” His grin has spread into twinkles of the eyes. “We’gon’ get mar’ied, Tony! We  _ hafta!” _

Tony can't hold back his laughter. “Woah, woah, okay, kiddo.” He manages to wiggle himself into a sitting position without throwing Peter off the couch. “Hold your horses there. You've got, like, a decade plus to go before you can get married to anyone.”

Peter’s lips pucker into a pout. “That’s no’  _ fair.” _

Tony bites into his lips and has to hold himself back from squeezing the living cuteness out of this kid. “The government isn't fair about a lot of things, Pete, especially marriage.” Plus, Tony is fairly sure he’s institutionally allergic to even the concept of marriage, given how spectacularly his previous relationships have gone.

Peter scowls, crossing his arms over his puffed up chest. “Well, I think the gov’mant is  _ stupid.” _

Tony’s resolve breaks―he scoops Peter up into a bear hug, smacking a kiss onto a pudgy cheek. He’s laughing, and he can’t stop, even if he tried. “Oh, my god,  _ Peter.”  _ He thinks it’s probably some sort of bad parenting thing to allow Peter to call anything ‘stupid,’ but Tony has never managed to not swear in front of Peter, so there’s definitely worse things floating around in Peter’s vocabulary. At least, Peter knows not to repeat Bad Words outside of the house, and his teachers emphasize enough the no-cursing rule at school, anyway.

Tony never did claim to be Parent of the Year.

Peter screeches with laughter. “Tony,  _ no, _ you’re  _ itchy!” _

Tony mock-gasps. “Since when!” He rubs his chin against the sensitive skin of Peter’s throat. “Is it itchy now?” he asks to Peter’s squirming and screeches. “How ‘bout now? Is it itchy over here? How about here?”

Peter is squiggling every which way, trying to duck his head to protect his neck. “Tony,  _ nooo.” _

“Tony,  _ yes,” _ he counters and proceeds to tickle the bejesus out of Peter.

Some minutes later, when Peter and Tony are lying side by side on the floor, both panting for breath, J.A.R.V.I.S. does the cybernetic equivalent of clearing his throat. “The pizza has been delivered, Sir. I have transferred the usual tip.”

“Pizza!” Peter exclaims, rolling himself to his feet to pad over with quick feet towards the kitchen.

Tony slowly sits himself up and coughs into his fist, willing his lungs not to crap out on him right now. “DUM-E?”

“Certainly, Sir,” J.A.R.VI.S. replies. “E.T.A. t-minus two minutes. I'd suggest making your way to the kitchen before the Young Sir manages to topple over the stools once again.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony mutters, levering himself up onto his feet with an embarrassing amount of effort. “Mother-hen complex, I swear.”

“It is my life’s purpose,” the A.I. snidely retorts. “And, Sir?”

Tony hums.

“Congratulations on becoming a father.”

Tony has to stop at that, blinking at the air before his eyes. J.A.R.V.I.S. really likes his liberties, doesn’t he? “Huh, well, I figure Peter is more like my fifth kid.” He grins. “It's a full house.”

 


	3. 2010, A Year and a Half Later

It’s Tony’s niggling want to be the farthest thing from his father that prompts him to turn over the position of CEO to Pepper.

After her mini-nervous breakdown―it was literally Pepper’s dream come true―and a glass or two of celebratory champagne, Pepper stares intently into his eyes with a mild frown. “You’re not dying, are you?” she asks, like there couldn’t possibly be any other reason.

Tony rolls his eyes. “I did give this some thought, you know.”

Pepper hums into her glass. “So you said.”

Why does that sound like she doesn’t believe him? Tony scoffs. “Pep, light of my life―”

“This doesn’t take you away from certain responsibilities with the company,” Pepper interrupts. “You do realize that, Tony. You’re still the owner and―”

“And head of R&D, I know,” Tony says. He slumps back against the couch, idly twirling the empty glass in his hand by the flute. “It’s still one less thing off my plate. Peter―”

“Deserves all of your attention,” Pepper finishes with a small smile. “I know.”

Tony huffs a breath as he turns to smile back at her. There’s a reason why he loves Pepper. “So, we still up for dinner tomorrow?” He nudges his knee with hers and wiggles his eyebrows in that way Pepper has told him on more than one occasion looks ridiculous. “Happy will be there.”

Pepper smacks him on the thigh. “Will you leave off?” she grouches, though it’s very telling going by the way her cheeks have gone ever so slightly pink. “It’s not like that.”

“Five years from now,” Tony says, “I’ll remind you you said that on your wedding day, Miss’ess Potts-Hogan.”

“Ugh,” Pepper groans, “Tony―”

“Come on, Pep,” Tony wheedles. “We all know denial is my thing.”

Pepper scoffs. “You’re such an ass, you know that?”

“Every day since I was born,” Tony agrees easily. “Now, go ask your man on a date before some other young buck plucks him away.”

“You’re insufferable,” she says fondly―and that’s her Pepper Smile, the one Tony knows she begrudgingly can’t help. Tony tends to have that effect on people.

Tony leans forward to settle his empty glass on the coffee table. “I’ll have someone from Legal be sent up with the transfer,” he starts, moving towards ending their conversation. Peter will be home in less than an hour―Happy drops him off after school―and he has some stuff planned for their evening. “The transfer should be finalized by the end of the month.”

“You’re really not dying, right?” Pepper asks again. “Because after Afghanistan and Obadiah, I―”

“I’m as well as can be, considering,” Tony interrupts, perhaps a tad sharply. Reminders of his soirée with Afghan terrorists―particularly the part where the last parental figure he had left tried to kill him  _ twice― _ are thoughts he prefers to suppress on a good day. He carefully doesn’t look in Pepper’s direction. “Look, I’m even going out groceries shopping with Peter after school―”

Pepper blinks. “Wow, and you’re really sure you’re not dying?”

“For fuck’s sake,  _ yes.” _ Rhodey had the same reaction yesterday, when they had been talking on the phone and Tony was telling him about his plan of making Pepper CEO. “Why is me in a shopping center so surprising?”

Pepper lifts a delicate eyebrow. “Maybe because you’ve never been in one?  _ Ever?” _

Tony rolls his eyes. “Yeah, whatever. See if I buy you anything.”

Pepper laughs―bright and airy, like a spring breeze. She leans over and smacks a kiss on his forehead. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Tony,” she says, standing as she clinks her glass down next to Tony’s.

Tony smiles and doesn’t move to stand to walk Pepper out. Alcohol gives him a weïrd side-effect, nowadays, and he’s just had one and a half too many―he might just grey out on the floor if he attempts to shift positions within the next half hour. “Give Rhodey a call when you reach home. He wants to know about your first steps into world domination.”

“Sometimes I wonder how you and Rhodey ever became friends,” Pepper muses over her shoulder as she heads towards the lab’s doors. “And other times I really, really don’t.”

 

* * *

 

It’s not Peter’s first time at a grocery store.

It’s  _ definitely  _ Tony’s first time at a grocery store.

He thinks even a  _ rock _ would be able to figure that little titbit out, given how the evening so far has been going. This little trip of theirs was meant to last an hour, tops. They are currently quickly heading into the third hour here.

“Uh, Tony?” Peter says for the umpteenpth time. A burst of giggles falls from his lips before he quickly clamps a hand over his mouth―not that it stops Tony from shooting him a glare. “This isn’t where they keep the pizzas.”

Tony stops rolling their half-empty cart with a haggard sigh. “Okay, and where do you propose it is, genius?”

Peter is too nice to roll his eyes. “In the frozen foods section.” He points over Tony’s shoulder. “Which is way over there.”

Tony groans. “Fuck, why do they make these places so big? Also, why are the pizzas  _ frozen?” _ he says with disdain. “Frozen pizzas are counterintuitive.”

“No, it’s not,” Peter argues, his short legs tapping along the floor quickly to keep up with Tony’s brisk pace. “They last longer that way, so you can cook it whenever you wan’ it.”

“Remind me again why we’re getting pizza?” Tony asks as they finally make it into the isle dedicated specifically to premade and frozen shit. God, what the hell do normal people eat?

“‘Cause Uncle Rhodey likes it,” Peter reminds him.

_ “Heathen,” _ Tony grumbles under his breath.

Peter plops a door open at his choosing and dumps four boxes of pizzas into the cart. This is their routine, after the last five times that Tony had chosen something and Peter had sworn up and down that it tastes like “garbage.” Peter chooses; Tony...generally stands around and looks pretty until he has to bring out the wallet.

Peter takes the end of the cart and starts pulling it―and Tony, incidentally―along. Tony let’s him, since it’s not like he knows where he’s going anyway.

Tony is really not cut out for this. He should just leave all of the shopping up to J.A.R.V.I.S., at this point. And Peter, apparently, but even Tony knows that’s horrible parenting.

Tony huffs. He feels like a horrible parent, letting his kid do all of the shopping for him. “You want anything else?” he asks Peter. “I think we’ve got everyth―”

Something slams into his lower back, audibly forcing his air out. Tony turns around to give whomever  _ that _ was a piece of his mind; that fucking  _ hurt, _ dammit.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” a man with a hat pulled over his chin-length hair says. He’s gripping onto another guy that looks remarkably sleazy―grungy-looking hoody pulled low over the eyes and everything―with a sharp tenseness that kindles at Tony’s memory. “My friend here wasn’t lookin’ where he was going.”

Tony’s eyes flick between the two men uneasily. “Right,” he responds slowly after silence hangs a second too long amongst them. There’s something about the men―the guy in the hat, in particular―that makes his hindbrain scream to  _ get Peter the fuck out of here. _

Hat Guy’s eyes are piercingly gray. “We’ll be out of your way.” He jerks at the arm of the other guy, forcibly pulling him away.  _ “Move it,” _ Tony hears him hiss in Russian at Sleazy Guy, sharp-tongued and decidedly angry.

Tony’s heart feels like it’s going to beat of his chest.  _ Fuck, fuck, fuck― _ He doesn’t know what the hell that was, but they need to move.  _ Now. _

Tony wrenches his eyes away from the corner where the two men had disappeared and fear-blindingly searches out for Peter’s small form. Relief sweeps through him when he spots the kid debating between the merits of oreos versus chocolate chip cookies.

Fuck, okay. Calm down. “Hey, Pete,” he calls. “You done yet? I think I left something running down in the ’shop.”

“Hmm,” Peter absentmindedly replies.

Tony tells himself yet again that yelling would be the exact opposite of what he needs to be doing right now. “Just take both, Pete, c’mon; we gotta go.”

Peter bounds over with the packages of cookies. “All done.”

“Good, great,” Tony is careful not to snap. “Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

Rhodey hisses a sharp breath. “Fuck, man, that’s going to bruise black.”

Tony grumbles into the pillow he has smushed against his face. “I know; I can feel it.”

Rhodey smoothes the shirt back down and then continues to run his hand down Tony’s back like one would pet a cat. “You’re really something else, you know that? Out shopping at an innocent supermarket, and you somehow manage to get ambushed by some assholes.” He weaves a hand through Tony’s unruly locks of hair, not bothering to hide his smile when Tony pushes back into the touch. “You’ve really got a knack for attracting the type.”

Tony turns his head to the side to inhale a sharply fresh wuff of air, allowing himself to sink further into the pillow. “I think there’s a sign over my head,” he replies groggily. If Rhodey keeps that up, he’s going to be asleep in two seconds flat. “‘Here there be mince meat. Please take at pleasure.’”

Rhodey snorts a laugh. “Is that how that works? And here I thought it was all the Tony Stark Charm, trademark pending.”

Tony decidedly does not pout. “You’re mean, honeybear.”

“Sorry,” Rhodey says, clearly not sorry. “Peter’s okay, though? If those sons of bitches so much as looked his way―”

Warmth blossoms in his chest. He thinks that it’s awful that he feels this way―indescribably happy and comforted―especially with how things could have gone, but it’s nice to know that, in this little family he’s made for himself, Peter has become as much of a part of it as Rhodey and Pepper and Happy are. “He’s okay,” he confirms. “He had no clue what was going on; I’d like to keep it that way.”

Rhodey flicks a lock of hair from Tony’s face, tucking it over the crown of his head. “Hey, I’m not arguing. The kid’s too young to be dealing with this kind of shit, either way.”

Tony hums appreciatively as Rhodey continues to knead at his scalp. “You know he’s still going on with the thing about marrying me?”

Rhodey bursts into a laugh. “He’s still on that?”

“I got a call from one of his teacher’s the other day.” He drops his tone into a British accent―the professor is from the motherland, which Tony has yet to fail to find infinitely hilarious. “‘Mister Stark, now, it is unduly proper for this sort of behaviour―’”

Rhodey snorts. “Tell me you didn’t cuss Peter’s teacher out.”

“I didn’t,” Tony swears. “Much.”

“Yeah,” Rhodey drawls, “that was real convincing, Tones.”

“Assholery is given where assholery is given, Rhodes,” Tony shoots back. Although, he may have gone  _ slightly _ overboard; the principal had called him in a frantic over one of her teachers threatening to quit. Bastards. “At any rate, Peter will grow out of it, eventually. There’s no reason to panic until he starts harbouring an unhealthy obsession.”

“What, did you read that in a magazine?” Rhodey retorts, unconvinced.

Tony points to the ceiling.

“It was indeed my own subjective thoughts on the matter,” J.A.R.V.I.S. promptly replies.

Rhodey’s eyebrow lifts to his nonexistent hairline. “This right here? Is me highly questioning your parenting methods,” he says, though whether he’s talking to Tony or the A.I. or both is up in the wind.

“Hey, I take it as a win that I haven’t managed to give the kid food poisoning yet,” Tony jokes.

“Maybe because you order in instead of cook? When you gonna learn how to cook and give your kid a home-cooked meal, huh? If Ma ever got wind of this―”

Tony squawks indignantly, turning onto his side to properly give Rhodey the full length of his glare. “You wouldn’t dare.” He can already hear Mama Rhodes’ despairing tone:  _ ‘Anthony Edward Stark, it’s been twenty damn years, and you still haven’t learned a singed thing that I’ve taught you since you were thirteen? Is this how you repay all of my hard work, child?’ _

“Omelettes, french fries, and ramen does not constitute any sort of healthy food group,” Rhodey replies. “This ain’t college where you can drown yourself in coffee half the time and gobble down an entire package of noodles the other half.”

_ “Hence,” _ Tony interjects before Rhodey can go down on a more long-winded spiel, “the ordering in. I let J.A.R.V.I.S. choose, for the most part.”

“Uh-huh,” Rhodey says, but, thankfully, he drops it. They pass in silence for a few moments, Rhodey moving his hand from Tony’s hair down to work some knots from his neck. He chuckles as Tony groans obscenely at the massage. “You sure you don’t want me to put some ice on that bruise of yours?”

Tony makes a face. “Ugh, god, no, I feel cold all the fucking time already.”

“Yeah,” Rhodey says in a tone that Tony doesn’t particularly like, “that’s your shit circulation and even poorer blood pressure talking. You got any of that ointment that Happy got you left?”

He turns back over so that he’s laying on his stomach, shoving the length of the pillow further down to accommodate the weight of the arc reactor. He squeezes the fluff of it as he rubs his forehead against the silky material in a shake of the head. “Used it all up last week,” he mutters into the pillow.

“I’m going to pretend I actually heard that,” Rhodey says, the lilt of his voice riding with amusement. He nudges at Tony’s ribs with his knee. “Hey, are you ever going to tell me what the hell freaked you out so much about that guy?”

Tony hadn’t said as much, but he imagines it’s not difficult for Rhodey to discern that his nerves were shivering in their wake. That, and, well, Tony’s epic adrenaline crash would have been a major clue―he really needs to get that fainting thing in order before he brains himself on a sharp edge when there’s no Rhodey or Happy to catch him when he inevitably falls.

He closes his eyes and allows the memory to wash over him. Slate gray eyes as sharp as thin ice and a body built like a fucking truck, a shadow that pegs his mind as familiar as his own. Tony shivers―his hindbrain’s shouting again:  _ danger. _

“Tony?”

Tony releases his hold on the pillow and rolls over onto his back, ignoring the twinge of pain he still feels there. He blinks up at his bedroom’s ceiling and tries to recall where the hell he could have seen that man before. Nothing gives. “It feels like…” he begins slowly, trying to fit the proper words onto his tongue. “Like there’s always something at the corner of your eye, but―but, when you turn to look, there’s nothing there. And you brush it off your mind until it happens again and again and again. It’s like―” Tony gestures expansively, frustration pulling at him; he’s not explaining this quite right. “I’ve seen him before. Like I’ve been seeing him for a really fucking long time, like his eyes have been in my nightmares before.” He exhales shakily and grinds the heels of his palms into his eye-sockets. “God, I can’t get those damn eyes out of my head.”

Rhodey digs his fingers into his leg, second-hand fear scraping a cold wave of goosebumps over his flesh. “Tony, that―that fuckin’ sounds like you’ve got a damn stalker on your hands.”

Tony drops his hand to Rhodey’s clenched one and squeezes in what he can only hope comes out as reassurance rather than a desperate need for comfort. “I made a composite already and had J.A.R.V.I.S. scan it into his system. He’s been running a search for any matching caucasian males in their late twenties to mid-thirties. Once we get a hit, I’m sending it over to Danny, though it’s likely that he won’t be able to do much. I probably won’t have any evidence, and you can’t base a claim without evidence, especially when you’ve already been publicly accused of hyperactive paranoia and PTSD on national television. But it’ll be there in the system, if something ever happens.”

Rhodey grunts an unhappy sigh. “Tony, man, Williams is all the way out in Oahu; he doesn’t have jurisdiction over shit that happens all the way out here.”

Tony has already thought of that. “He’s running―or is  _ in; _ I never quite got the difference―a special task force with McGarrett.” He flicks his eyes to Rhodey, a teasing grin pulling at his lips. “You remember Steve, right?”

Like Tony predicted, Rhodey’s face goes instantly thunderous. “Steve McGarrett,” he repeats, like Tony had better said something different. “Steve.  _ McGarrett.” _

“Yeah,” Tony reiterates, “Steve  _ McGarrett.” _ He’s enjoying too much pulling at Rhodey’s strings―it takes his mind off their most recent topic, at the very least. “You know, my ex?”

“McGarrett,” Rhodey says again, as if he were stuck on a loop. “Control-issues McGarrett.  _ That _ McGarrett?”

“How many McGarretts do you know?” Tony shoots back. Every time he brings Steve up, Rhodey gets like this, much to Tony’s endless amusement. It’s all really a long-standing dick measuring contest that began all the way back in the Spring of ‘97 and has been excused by both men as some good-natured Navy/Air Force rivalry. “He’s a good guy, Rhodey. At any rate, even if Steve were disinclined to help, like I said, I’m running the favour by Danny.” Danny did, after all, help him out with Peter’s adoption; he figures the guy would be liable to keep Peter safe from Tony’s potential stalkers.

“I’m not saying Steve―or Williams, for that matter―is not a good guy,” Rhodey says. He tugs at their intertwined hands, prompting Tony to look at Rhodey, the latter of which has been watching Tony intently. “Hey, you listening?”

“Always,” he replies automatically, though he returns his gaze back to the ceiling. He can’t stand it when Rhodey looks at him like that.

“Don’t be a smart-ass, jackass,” Rhodey says, though he keeps his timbre evenly cool. “When it comes to shit like this, you come to me first, you get me? I’ve got people, and I’ve got strings. And, more than that, I don’t think you’re some paranoid nutcase.”

Tony huffs a laugh and pretends his eyes aren’t heating up with welling emotion. “Boy, you think so highly of me, honeybear.”

“You bet your ass I do. Hey―” He grips at Tony’s chin, forcing the other man to look back at him once more. He studies Tony’s face―doubtlessly handsome with large doe eyes and a wickedly smart mouth. In a different life, Rhodey knows he could have fallen for that face, but Tony has been Rhodey’s kid brother for over two decades, and he doesn’t imagine that will ever change two decades from now. “You and me, we’re in this together, you hear? No more of this lone gunslinger act that you like to pull. Get J.A.R.V.I.S. to send that info over my way; I’ll run a search from my end, see what I can find.”

Tony blinks water from his eyes and pretends that it’s only a trail of moisture running down into his hairline. “Rhodey―” he tries, but the other man is quick to interrupt him.

“I don’t wanna hear it,” he says, knowing instinctively exactly what Tony will try to argue. He swipes his thumb under the corner of Tony’s eye, rubbing a tear along the arch of his cheek. “You ain’t gonna make me lose my job over this, all right?”

Tony breathes out a shaky sigh. He hates how easily Rhodey can get him all emotional. “Okay,” he relents. “But I reserve the right to say, ‘I told you so.’”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens!


	4. Flushing, Queens, New York ― May, 2011

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, I told myself I wasn’t touching the palladium thing with a ten-foot pole. Clearly, my brain knew I was lying and incorporated the whole shebang into the plotline instead.
> 
> There isn't much Peter in this chapter, but I'll be making up for it in the next update!
> 
> Thanks for reading! :)

 

 If anyone asks Tony, it’s Pepper’s fault.

No, really, it is. She’s the one who wanted his opinion on how to do more PR that would interest the general public―it’s not his fault that the Stark Expo became a much bigger hit than anyone, including Tony himself, was expecting. From the time they opened the doors a few weeks early back in May of last year―Tony had some free time on his hands since Pepper is really the most efficient CEO in the history of CEOs―they’ve been drawing in crowds from all demographics in the upwards of the hundreds of thousands.

And, then, as their stock started spiking into an all-time high, the board had the brilliant idea of relocating HQ closer to the Expo.

It’s okay, at first―Peter _loves_ flying―but, as time moves on and Tony is increasingly needed more, Peter’s schoolwork starts to suffer as he starts missing several weeks of school. In fact, Peter has attended a grand total of fifteen days since the beginning of the school year; needless to say, Tony kept getting bombarded by calls from Peter’s teachers and, at one point, the principal herself.

Inevitably, the stress of constantly commuting back and forth eventually catches up to him. He does a spectacular Victorian impression in Pepper’s office right as they are about to leave for a shareholders’ meeting. It’s then that Pepper calls enough as enough and orders Tony to work something out before she’s forced to take matters into her own hands. “And no one wants that to happen, do we?” she had grouched, her movements jerky as she accommodated Tony’s legs over a mound of couch cushions.

Laying on Pepper’s couch, Tony had a long half-hour to think of a solution.

Though he doesn’t particularly like it―he left New York for a reason―it doesn’t take him long to conclude that moving back to the 5th Avenue mansion would be the best decision, for Peter’s education if nothing else.

Some weeks later, Pepper―the heathen actually _likes_ doing this sort of thing―has everything set up in the mansion and ready to go, down to a shiny and new workshop that she had renovated as a house-warming gift for Tony.

Unfortunately, Pepper’s natural efficiency doesn’t extend to corralling pre-teens. Disinclined to leave his schoolmates―understandably, though Tony only gets this as a distant concept that generally happens in society―Peter kicks up a storm that doesn’t calm until he makes a new best friend by the end of February, halfway through the new school year.

Nonetheless, despite Peter’s initial reluctance and Tony’s trepidation of being back in his childhood home where dark memories lurk around every corner, Peter and he manage to settle into their normal routine, though J.A.R.V.I.S. has taken to changing the weekly menu at a whim. Peter even comes around to asking to have a sleepover at his friend’s house once in a while, contrary to his usual preference of staying attached to Tony’s hip every second that he can glean. It’s like this that, slowly but surely, Peter takes to the city-life like a fish to the sea.

And, just as slowly but surely, Tony becomes the proverbial fish out of water as everything that he has carefully built with Peter comes crashing down around them.

 

* * *

 

It starts with a spiking toxicity level that Tony had been steadily managing with increasing doses of liquefied chlorophyll every night before bedtime.

This storm has apparently been brewing for a while, Tony discovers as he’s solving the last of Howard’s configurations for an element whose plans have been lurking in the original Stark Expo model, and, if he were a more active man―he adheres to a strict exercise regimen―he hypothesizes the reactor core would be burning more quickly and his symptoms would have surfaced that much sooner.

As it is, a thirty-six percent toxicity has his usual, crappy health doubling from manageable to the point where his typical “struggling out of bed” becomes “I’m never moving a muscle _ever.”_

He gets migraines that like to accompany low grade fevers and cold sweats; bouts of nausea that has him refusing food until J.A.R.V.I.S. has to threaten to intubate him; and a muscle weakness that leaves him shaky on a good day and barely able to move on others. It gets to the point where he can’t hide it from Peter anymore.

It’s on a particularly bad night―his stomach giving it its damnedest to turn itself inside out if Tony so much as twitches―when Tony willingly decides to check himself into a hospital. It’s two-thirds mostly to shut up J.A.R.V.I.S., the overbearing A.I. that he is, and one-third to get his symptoms under manageable levels so that he can finally build that stupid particle accelerator that’s been sitting in his workshop in pieces for a little over a week, since he has found neither the time nor the bodily strength to build it.

It’s really one hundred percent so Peter doesn’t have to go through this ever again.

That night, the dehydration had caught up to him, and the few minutes he’d wanted to rest his eyes for on the soothingly cold floor had turned into full-on unconsciousness. It went even more to shit when Peter, looking for Tony to go eat dinner together, had wandered in.

Some indiscernible time later, Tony had woken up to Rhodey’s haggard and exceedingly unimpressed mien hovering over his head. Tony had at first tried to wave off the incident, but Rhodey had quickly put a stop to that and showed him the footage of what happened when Peter had found him.

Tony’s mind still plays on a loop how distressed and increasingly panicked Peter had been as the kid tried to wake up Tony’s unconscious form to no avail. Peter had been just on the cusp of passing out himself from hyperventilating when Happy had swooped in at the nick of time.

“For the love of god, Tony,” Rhodey is on the verge of pleading, “I know you don’t give a shit about your self―”

“Okay,” Tony concedes, blinking to clear the tears gathering in his eyes. His voice is a croaking whisper from all of the abuse it has been taking―he feels so _weak,_ down to the ligaments on his bones, that he can’t even wipe away the evidence of his anguish. “Okay, Rhodey.”

Rhodey doesn’t ask if Tony is sure; he simply takes his liberties on the invitation and swoops Tony up, blankets and all―goddamn fit military men―and carries him the rest of the way to the car that is already there running and ready to go.

“What if I had said no?” Tony grumbles into Rhodey’s shoulder.

“Tough shit.”

 

* * *

 

As soon as Tony gets settled into his own private sector in the hospital by the nice medical staff―and, yes, that is sarcasm; bite him, Rhodey―Tony guilts Rhodey into going back to the mansion to stay with Peter and Happy until he’s cleared as relatively stable. “And, look, there’s even some heavy lifting that I’m gonna need some help with―don’t give me that face, Rhodes; contrary to popular belief, I know exactly what I’m doing.”

“What you’re doing,” Rhodey cuts in ruthlessly, “is running yourself into the ground. I get it; you want to keep going, hundred miles an hour on a twenty, but you physically _can’t take this―”_

Tony groans. “C’mon, this again? This,” he waves a hand at the room at large, “whole thing? It has nothing to do with my fucked-up heart, all right―well, okay, it kinda does, but only peripherally in the sense―okay, you know what; I’m not explaining this right. I’ve got palladium poisoning from the reactor core. There, I said it. I’m handling it―”

 _“What―_ Tony, in what world is any of this considering _handling_ it? For fuck’s sake, you were unresponsive in your own bathroom with your kid in hysterics just a few hours ago―”

“If you would _let me finish,”_ Tony quickly cuts in because that is something that he really does not need to relive right now, “that little heavy lifting project sitting in my workshop? It’s a particle accelerator.” He taps lightly over the sapphire glass cover of the reactor, hidden under the thin layer of his fashionable hospital gown. “There’s an element I’m making that’s a viable replacement for the core in this thing.”

Rhodey spares the reactor a meaningful glance, a heat behind his eyes that Tony can’t read. “What, like vibranium or something?”

“If it were vibranium, my problems would have been solved a lot sooner. Let me rephrase that: I’m, uh, synthesizing an element that Howard discovered a while ago based on this cube thing that I’m not supposed to know about.”

Rhodey leans over Tony’s bed with his elbows propped up on the soft mattress and buries his face into his hands. “God, do you know how insane you sound right now? You’re cooking up an element in your basement?”

“Well,” Tony begins with a teasing grin, “technically―”

Rhodey raises a palm into the air. “Stop. I don’t want to hear it. I’m saving up plausible deniability when the feds come knocking on your door when you inevitably blow half of Manhattan off the map.”

“Honey-bunny, what plausible deniability? I need your muscle to do all of the heavy lifting.” He prods at Rhodey’s shoulder to prove his point and doesn’t stop when he finds the warmth leaking from his friend soothing on his aching fingers. “What’s the point of all of this junk you carry around with you otherwise?”

Rhodey rolls his eyes goodnaturedly even as he reaches for Tony’s hand to fold the limb gently between two of his, silently offering the warmth more attainably. “All of this _junk,”_ he says, flexing his biceps just to see Tony sputter into a laugh, “carried your pale ass all the way out here.”

Tony hums thoughtfully and wiggles his other hand between Rhodey’s; he’s done this often enough since their college days―and even more so after Afghanistan, since his shitty circulation tends to render his extremities perpetually cold―that Rhodey knows instinctively what he wants and seamlessly readjust his grip. “There had better not be any pap shots of me swooning in your arms.”

“I’ll frame them for you,” Rhodey half-heartedly consoles. “And, hey, in all seriousness, don’t go doing anything stupid while I check up on the kid, you get me?”

Tony doesn’t bother agreeing to that―somehow, trouble always seems to follow on his heels. “So, you’re being my muscle for a day after I get out of here, right?” he wheedles instead.

Rhodey lets go of one of his hands to run it through Tony’s hair. His dark eyes hold a dedicated fierceness to them, a vehement protective loyalty that Tony has known since their MIT days he will never deserve. “My junk is your junk, gunslinger.”

Tony smiles, helpless to the warmth burgeoning in his chest, and catches Rhodey’s retreating hand. He presses his lips to Rhodey’s knuckles in a show of gratitude he can’t find the words to say out loud. “You bet your ass it is.”

 

* * *

 

It’s day three of his stay at the hospital―he was supposed to leave yesterday, but his body clearly had other plans, so now he’s stuck here for an additional twenty-four to forty-eight hours on watch until everyone and their mothers can be sure he’s not going to keel over the next time he tries to walk twenty yards―and Tony is bored out of his mind.

He hacks into the hospital’s database, which is too fucking easy and has him back to being bored out of his mind five minutes after he changes his ‘heavy metal poisoning’ diagnosis with ‘drop-dead gorgeous.’ It’ll at least get a laugh out of these poor overworked nurses, even if he can already hear Pepper’s voice reprimanding him in his head.

He debates calling Peter, though they had just spoken a little over an hour ago, but the decision is taken out of his hands when a knock comes at his door before one of the nurses comes rolling in his tray of breakfast.

He registers the deep red colour of the woman’s hair first.

And then she turns, a pleasant smile on her lips, and Tony’s heart stops.

He’d recognize that face anywhere.

That’s Yelena Belova.

Belova, the woman who had tried to kidnap Peter and brought him to Tony’s world instead. Her body charred beyond recognition, a Russian ID the only thing left of her beauty, of her impossibly red hair and piercing emerald eyes. No ties to anyone, no one to call her missing.

Yet her red lips part and she says, “I’ll be your nurse for today, Mister Stark.”

Tony doesn’t think twice. He rips out his IV line and bolts.

 


End file.
